Dusty Presents

Will you open them for me this year?
They've sat, undusted for so long now.
Sometimes I forget, trip over them,
curse them, then remember you
and so I leave them there.
I wrapped them so carefully,
pictured your stubby fingers struggle,
their violent shivers from troughs of wine
ever tormentors on the break of each day.

Will you open them for me this year?
They're lonely where they are,
unloved, untouched, waiting.
Through thick dust, the odd shard
Of light laughs out from the gold ribbon.
I often think it's you laughing at my
clumsy attempt to get along alone.
Three dusty little boxes
for two years have awaited a home.

Will you open them for me this year
so I can set you free?
Wind back two years and freshly hold me,
tell me all your secrets again.
Through my living fingers,
please visit and uncurl the string,
unfold the cold, dark cage I have been in,
let gold and silver live again,
let snowflakes not be tears.

for Peter Buchanan Bell (1941-2002) R.I.P.